The title I’ve spent all summer waiting to write: American Girl in Paris, Part Un
Brownie points for those of you who caught the infamous Sex and the City reference
Approximately 7:18 p.m.
Once again I find myself blogging on board a TGV high speed train originating in Paris and bound for Strasbourg. There was a rather disruptful complication with the high speed lines that caused all the trains before ours to be delayed and consequently ours too; however we just reached normal speeds and I’m now watching the French countryside breeze by my window.
Paris: the baited breath of my entire summer. I muse that I did most of my weekend traveling in reverse-logical order, saving the more practical and renowned for last.
As I said to Jeremy (my co-worker whom I spent the weekend with - at his grandmother’s), how could I not leave Paris with a positive perspective and pleasant memories? I’m the charmed American girl who had a personal French tour guide to take me directly to all my highlighted sites AND had a local grandmother fuss over my meals and comfort all weekend long. Transversing Paris remained a breeze and all the locals were so accommodating when you have a French escort. This American girl cannot fathom the attitude she was warned about.
Friday
How did I end up going to Paris with Jeremy anyway?
Jeremy came to the lab in June and spent two months working on his summer intern project as part of his chemistry requirements for his university in Leon. (The French have a very different system for their summer internships). All of France – this is no exaggeration – takes the month of August off for vacation so Jeremy is currently going out to the west coast of France in Brittany for vacation with his parents. There was a problem moving out of his flat in Strasbourg that meant he had to change his train tickets to either a Friday or Sunday and find somewhere to stay until he met up with his parents.
Meanwhile I was perplexed about what I was going to do in order to get to Paris. I figured I couldn’t call myself an American tourist if I spent three months here and left without a glimpse of the Tour d’Eiffel.
Jeremy was thinking of spending the weekend in Paris with his grandmother. Like an idea light bulb turning on over his head, he offered to have me come and stay and we could go see all the sites around Paris since he rarely goes around as a tourist. Perfect.
Friday was busy just like my past two weeks have been. After work Jeremy brought in some snacks and wine and we had a small lab going away party. From there Jeremy and I gathered up our bags and headed for the train station. It looked pretty humorous that I had one rolling bag and he had a three.
As I mentioned in the previous blog, buying tickets with a Frenchman proved quite handy. We ended up with 1st class tickets for cheaper than the rate for 2nd to Paris. Awesome.
The train ride was uneventful and we just planned out (using my handy-dandy Lonely Planet guidebook that has everything) our three days in Paris.
We got to Paris, took the metro, took the suburbian train, and arrived at his grandmother’s. She had dinner all ready for us. [See Dinner with Grandmere subset for the details] Jeremy’s grandmother lives alone in a relatively quiet suburb of Paris. She’s about a 15 minute train ride from one of the train stations/metro. She lives on the 6th floor (American 7th floor) which is reachable by a tini-tiny elevator that was smaller than a coat closet. Since she raised many kids (I think 6?) she also took over a flat on the second floor that was converted to just bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry room. Jeremy and I got our own rooms on the second floor, and I got to stay in the larger guest room.
Diner avec Grandmere
Let me take a moment and put you in my shoes:
I’ve been living away from home -- in a foreign country -- for three months now. I was lucky enough to get a visit from my dad, but other than that…
- I live in a shitty dorm with toilet-seatless “shit holes” that I share with boys and my showers are timed to 5 second intervals
- While I’m doing a good job cooking for myself, this still takes preparation and effort after work on my part
- I don’t touch anyone. Strasbourg is a spread out city, and any contact I have with humans (Dad’s visit aside) involves the one time a week I might end up in a crowded elevator with strangers. If someone helps me in the lab, this contact remains shielded through a lab coat and gloves
The last statement might read odd at first, but it’s something I realized a few weeks ago. I never hug a friend, or my parents, or my cocker spaniel Phoebe, or cuddle with my big strong boyfriend. Living so long without any human contact starts to wear on psychological state…
So here I am. I show up on the doorstep of this typical, doting grandmother who made dinner for us every night, made sure we slept well, prepared breakfast, talked to us, smiled at us, and greeted us with the quintessential French two-cheeked kiss. I didn’t have to wear shower shoes in the shower and there casual creature comforts everywhere (rugs, Kleenexs, soft sheets, fluffy pillows, a TV, lamps, photographs of family… I could elaborate forever.)
Hopefully you see why it felt SO GOOD to stay in a “home” instead of a makeshift dorm or budget hotel.
I’m going to do my best to relay this accurately. While nothing was every overly done or formally fancy, there were definitely observable and particular Parisian/personal habits. For instance, when she showed us our rooms she got out a bottle of water and a glass, placed in on a miniature tray covered with a laced, white linen doily. The glass had a cartoon character on it and I later discovered the bump under the doily was really a tiny child’s toy; abandoned undoubtedly from one of her many grandchildren.
For dinner we had linen napkins, though none of them matched and only mine came in a special crocheted pouch. Dinners were essential, everyday France at its best.
We never had less than three courses and always ate after 7. The over the three nights our first course consisted of tiny triangle sandwiches covered in a type of pate with a tiny pickle, the next day a small salad, and finally a slice of very fresh cantaloupe (which came with it’s own special seriated spoon.)
Baguette slices were always served as well. The first night we had chicken cutlets with browned, scalloped potatoes. Saturday we had fish on a bed of rice and a tomato cream sauce, and then we had chicken in a mustard crème sauce followed by homemade ratatouille.
We were always offered cheese as a course afterwards though this was always declined.
Dessert was a must. Friday we had a miniature frozen cup of an ice cream sundae, then Saturday she made a fresh Tarte aux Pommes (apple tart, not to be confused with American apple pie), and then Sunday held a special surprise. We had mini éclairs (both chocolate and caramel) and then Fromage Blanc (translation, white cheese). It had the flavor of cream cheese but the consistency of yogurt. I had never had this before and it was one of those instances where I casually had to watch how everyone else ate it before attempting it on my own. We swirled in berry jam (though I understand you could do just put in plain sugar) and then ate it that way. Can’t say it was my all time favorite dessert ever, but I enjoyed it. Wouldn’t mind eating it again, though I’m not going to cry that we don’t an equivalent in the United States.
The French are not big on breakfast. Cereal apparently is a relatively new cultural trend as well. I read when I first got here that the French mostly like to have yesterday’s baguettes with jam and croissants only on the weekends. Pain au Chocolat (a type of croissant pastry with two kit-kat sized chocolate sticks in the middle) is also a common breakfast item.
So at grandma’s she always had coffee heating and then we had no other than Florida orange juice. She we also had cereal, toast, jam, and Nutella. It was great.
Just another Saturday in Paris
Brownie points for those of you who caught the infamous Sex and the City reference
Approximately 7:18 p.m.
Once again I find myself blogging on board a TGV high speed train originating in Paris and bound for Strasbourg. There was a rather disruptful complication with the high speed lines that caused all the trains before ours to be delayed and consequently ours too; however we just reached normal speeds and I’m now watching the French countryside breeze by my window.
Paris: the baited breath of my entire summer. I muse that I did most of my weekend traveling in reverse-logical order, saving the more practical and renowned for last.
As I said to Jeremy (my co-worker whom I spent the weekend with - at his grandmother’s), how could I not leave Paris with a positive perspective and pleasant memories? I’m the charmed American girl who had a personal French tour guide to take me directly to all my highlighted sites AND had a local grandmother fuss over my meals and comfort all weekend long. Transversing Paris remained a breeze and all the locals were so accommodating when you have a French escort. This American girl cannot fathom the attitude she was warned about.
Friday
How did I end up going to Paris with Jeremy anyway?
Jeremy came to the lab in June and spent two months working on his summer intern project as part of his chemistry requirements for his university in Leon. (The French have a very different system for their summer internships). All of France – this is no exaggeration – takes the month of August off for vacation so Jeremy is currently going out to the west coast of France in Brittany for vacation with his parents. There was a problem moving out of his flat in Strasbourg that meant he had to change his train tickets to either a Friday or Sunday and find somewhere to stay until he met up with his parents.
Meanwhile I was perplexed about what I was going to do in order to get to Paris. I figured I couldn’t call myself an American tourist if I spent three months here and left without a glimpse of the Tour d’Eiffel.
Jeremy was thinking of spending the weekend in Paris with his grandmother. Like an idea light bulb turning on over his head, he offered to have me come and stay and we could go see all the sites around Paris since he rarely goes around as a tourist. Perfect.
Friday was busy just like my past two weeks have been. After work Jeremy brought in some snacks and wine and we had a small lab going away party. From there Jeremy and I gathered up our bags and headed for the train station. It looked pretty humorous that I had one rolling bag and he had a three.
As I mentioned in the previous blog, buying tickets with a Frenchman proved quite handy. We ended up with 1st class tickets for cheaper than the rate for 2nd to Paris. Awesome.
The train ride was uneventful and we just planned out (using my handy-dandy Lonely Planet guidebook that has everything) our three days in Paris.
We got to Paris, took the metro, took the suburbian train, and arrived at his grandmother’s. She had dinner all ready for us. [See Dinner with Grandmere subset for the details] Jeremy’s grandmother lives alone in a relatively quiet suburb of Paris. She’s about a 15 minute train ride from one of the train stations/metro. She lives on the 6th floor (American 7th floor) which is reachable by a tini-tiny elevator that was smaller than a coat closet. Since she raised many kids (I think 6?) she also took over a flat on the second floor that was converted to just bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry room. Jeremy and I got our own rooms on the second floor, and I got to stay in the larger guest room.
Diner avec Grandmere
Let me take a moment and put you in my shoes:
I’ve been living away from home -- in a foreign country -- for three months now. I was lucky enough to get a visit from my dad, but other than that…
- I live in a shitty dorm with toilet-seatless “shit holes” that I share with boys and my showers are timed to 5 second intervals
- While I’m doing a good job cooking for myself, this still takes preparation and effort after work on my part
- I don’t touch anyone. Strasbourg is a spread out city, and any contact I have with humans (Dad’s visit aside) involves the one time a week I might end up in a crowded elevator with strangers. If someone helps me in the lab, this contact remains shielded through a lab coat and gloves
The last statement might read odd at first, but it’s something I realized a few weeks ago. I never hug a friend, or my parents, or my cocker spaniel Phoebe, or cuddle with my big strong boyfriend. Living so long without any human contact starts to wear on psychological state…
So here I am. I show up on the doorstep of this typical, doting grandmother who made dinner for us every night, made sure we slept well, prepared breakfast, talked to us, smiled at us, and greeted us with the quintessential French two-cheeked kiss. I didn’t have to wear shower shoes in the shower and there casual creature comforts everywhere (rugs, Kleenexs, soft sheets, fluffy pillows, a TV, lamps, photographs of family… I could elaborate forever.)
Hopefully you see why it felt SO GOOD to stay in a “home” instead of a makeshift dorm or budget hotel.
I’m going to do my best to relay this accurately. While nothing was every overly done or formally fancy, there were definitely observable and particular Parisian/personal habits. For instance, when she showed us our rooms she got out a bottle of water and a glass, placed in on a miniature tray covered with a laced, white linen doily. The glass had a cartoon character on it and I later discovered the bump under the doily was really a tiny child’s toy; abandoned undoubtedly from one of her many grandchildren.
For dinner we had linen napkins, though none of them matched and only mine came in a special crocheted pouch. Dinners were essential, everyday France at its best.
We never had less than three courses and always ate after 7. The over the three nights our first course consisted of tiny triangle sandwiches covered in a type of pate with a tiny pickle, the next day a small salad, and finally a slice of very fresh cantaloupe (which came with it’s own special seriated spoon.)
Baguette slices were always served as well. The first night we had chicken cutlets with browned, scalloped potatoes. Saturday we had fish on a bed of rice and a tomato cream sauce, and then we had chicken in a mustard crème sauce followed by homemade ratatouille.
We were always offered cheese as a course afterwards though this was always declined.
Dessert was a must. Friday we had a miniature frozen cup of an ice cream sundae, then Saturday she made a fresh Tarte aux Pommes (apple tart, not to be confused with American apple pie), and then Sunday held a special surprise. We had mini éclairs (both chocolate and caramel) and then Fromage Blanc (translation, white cheese). It had the flavor of cream cheese but the consistency of yogurt. I had never had this before and it was one of those instances where I casually had to watch how everyone else ate it before attempting it on my own. We swirled in berry jam (though I understand you could do just put in plain sugar) and then ate it that way. Can’t say it was my all time favorite dessert ever, but I enjoyed it. Wouldn’t mind eating it again, though I’m not going to cry that we don’t an equivalent in the United States.
The French are not big on breakfast. Cereal apparently is a relatively new cultural trend as well. I read when I first got here that the French mostly like to have yesterday’s baguettes with jam and croissants only on the weekends. Pain au Chocolat (a type of croissant pastry with two kit-kat sized chocolate sticks in the middle) is also a common breakfast item.
So at grandma’s she always had coffee heating and then we had no other than Florida orange juice. She we also had cereal, toast, jam, and Nutella. It was great.
Just another Saturday in Paris
After breakfast Jeremy and I left the north western suburb of Bécon les Bruyères for the outskirts of Paris: destination Versailles.
This would also be an appropriate place to note that heavy rain and clouds were predicted all weekend long in Paris. Expecting the type of miserable weather I’ve had on several other weekend get-aways I packed my umbrella, coat, rain jacket, and positive “go get ‘em” attitude.
This would also be an appropriate place to note that heavy rain and clouds were predicted all weekend long in Paris. Expecting the type of miserable weather I’ve had on several other weekend get-aways I packed my umbrella, coat, rain jacket, and positive “go get ‘em” attitude.
So didn’t need it. The weather was cool in the morning and got warm by the afternoon. Special thanks to whoever un-did a rain dance for me from the United States.
Jeremy had never been to Versailles, so he was just as eager to see it. Ok, maybe not eager, but didn’t mind actually seeing it. We arrived and of course there were mobs and mobs of tourists. There was a guy talking French on a loudspeaker and Jeremy exclaimed “he’s not even French! He has a weird accent, not even the tourguides working here are French!” That was fun, because he sounded French to me.
The lines were terribly – and I mean terribly – long to get inside the palace so we decided that walking around the gardens would be just fine. Honestly I’ve seen enough palaces, cathedrals, castles, that missing the hall of mirrors and four hours in line was not a loss. After my two cups of coffee, I needed to find a bathroom. There was a huge line for the women, of course, and Jeremy and I joked that this better be one spectacular bathroom if you have to wait that long.
Let’s just say it was a disappointment.
During the summer Versailles puts on “Les grandes eaux musicals de Versailles,” or musical fountains, and puts on all the fountains in the morning and then in the evening while literally blasting classical music from speakers in the bushes. We both found this whole thing kind of humorous. We couldn’t even carry on a conversation when we were next to it, but once you ventured to the side gardens it was actually pleasant.
Also hilarious: lazy tourists. Apparently you can rent a golf cart type thing to go around the garden. I mean really, unless you are handicapped there is no reason for this. Get off your butt and walk around. It’s not like it’s a mountain or something. So Jeremy kept joking that he was going to steal some carts so we could race around with each other. Now that I think would have been neat. Moral of the story, if you go to Versailles, why don’t you work off that croissant and get some fresh air.
Once again, I got to feel like a mild badass. Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna was built by Maria Theresa to rival Versailles. The only difference is they used techniques like stucco to stretch their treasury. If you remember, this is also where Professor Waldman was actually a total badass by telling off the guards (in German) inside for accusing him of not being a registered tourguide and giving tours. When they protested, we did it anyway. It was just neat to actually have the two to compare.
After walking around the gardens for a long spell, and seeing a bunny!, we headed for lunch on the recommendation of my guidebook. We went to this small creperie and got the set traditional meal of a galette, crepe, and some cider. Jeremy told me I should get a traditional galette (like the ones from Brittany, where he is going and has family) that had ham, egg, and cheese inside.
It was very good, duh. I really love these things and have a feeling I’m going to love my recent purchase of a authentic, 28 cm crepe pan. For my dessert crepe, I picked “Belle Hélène” (which was my French name in high school). I was very good. Chocolate sauce and vanilla ice cream.
According to Jeremy he said this place really wasn’t that good, but I disagree. Then again, I’m not French and I can count the number of galettes I’ve had on one hand. Maybe two.
Next stop downtown Paris. This involved getting back on a train. While we were sitting, resting our legs, Jeremy looked up and said “guess what I see…” and I turned and got my first look at the Eiffel Tower.
Now I’ve spent two months explaining to Jeremy the obsession Americans have 1) with Paris, 2) with the Eiffel Tower. So we had fun talking about how I can die happy now, my life is complete, blah blah blah.
So when I saw the Eiffel Tower I squealed, we laughed, and enjoyed the moment.
We got off the tram turned metro, walked up stairs, around a corner, and then boom, there it was. The monument to France I’ve seen only about a million times in my life. Even my desk lamp at home is the Eiffel Tower.
I’m going to admit it: the Eiffel Tower was cool. I think it symbolizes everything about me being an American in France this summer.
haha that’s crap. But you get my point. It really does make a visual statement and it’s easy to find yourself temporarily mesmorized by it.
While walking around the base, we came across a group of British activists preparing to cheer “home” their loved ones who had been on a bike marathon thing from England to Paris. I talked to one of the ladies (in English!!!) and she said they were raising money for premature babies (Office Fans: how about rabies?) and we talked about how their tushes must be tired! It’s nice to quickly, and merrily, converse with someone in English.
After that we did more walking around, walked over the Champs-Élysées, which was getting prepared for the end of the Tour de France. We crossed it, and I got my picture/glimpse from the middle of it. I’m a risk taker.
Next we went over to the Louvre so I got to see the glass pyramid. We sat down by the fountains and watched people get yelled at every 15 minutes for playing in it.
After that we went back to his grandmother’s for dinner. While Jeremy went to take a shower I watched a little CNN and got to hear things about America, including Obama’s visit to Paris.
Jeremy and I then went back into the city to a bar he had been to with his friends over Bastille Day weekend. They had a live singer, who sung American songs, and we just sat and talked about life. Mainly we talked about dating, bad dates, good dates, girls, why girls sometimes suck, how guys can suck, etc. Looks like dating is the same in France as it is in the US. Even Jeremy thought my dating stories before Adamo was horrible. This was both sad and amusing.
Also to get to the bar, we took the automated metro. Jeremy and I sat in the front of the train, on opposite sides, so we both got to see out of it as it careened through the dark tunnel. Well these two guys, who looked like French rappers came and sat next to us, and started making it obvious (unbeknownst to them) that they were talking about us. Apparently they were making bets if Jeremy was English or French since he was talking in English. Then he smiled and started talking in French to them, and they burst out laughing that he understood everything they had been saying.
Jeremy wouldn’t tell me what they were saying. I think it had something to do with me being a blonde American girl. Just a wild crazy guess though.
Afterwards we headed back, and on the suburbian train I guess I was speaking a little too loud. Honestly, it was a loud train and I think just the fact that it was English (any foreign language is very distracting) these two guys behind Jeremy said in French “those English need to be quiet” and Jeremy snapped around, and started talking in French, saying “for one, she’s not English, second she’s not talking that loud, and third you really could have asked more politely” and they shut up. We got off the train, and I said “well I probably was talking too loud” and Jeremy was like “no you weren’t, fuck them, they were rude and that’s not your fault. I hate people like that.”
Who knows if I was actually talking inappropriately loud or not, but this was the only time I got an attitude, and it really wasn’t a problem at all.
Just another Sunday in Paris
Sunday started at the Musee d’Orsay, the art museum for art nouveau and impressionists.
Toulouse Lautrec, Monet, Van Gogh, and the saintly Renoir.
I could have stared at Monet’s color palette for a month, and Renoir for eternity.
This is all I’m going to say on the matter.
Afterward Jeremy and I went to the Latin quarter and got sandwiches from a bakery. We then headed off to see Notre Dame. The outside was prettier than the inside. Glad I went, but it was just another cathedral.
I owe the next site to the Sunbury’s. They insisted, and highly recommended, I go see St. Chapelle which was right around the corner from Notre Dame. My guidebook said we’d have to pay to get in, and I was really tempted to just blow it off. But we went, and I’m SO glad we did.
To just quickly sum up a book’s worth of history – most of which I don’t know – St. Chapelle is a small medieval church whose chapel is completely incased in enormous stained glass. It wasn’t that crowded, and it really did feel like you were inside a Moroccan lamp. If you tried to focus too much on any individual pane of colored glass your eyes would flicker as your brain tried to sort through the intricate colors. We just sat inside the church for a bit and took it all in.
This church is the prime example of why Notre Dame and St. Peters really didn’t wow me. Churches like St. Chapelle have something special about them. While much smaller and not as grand, they just leave a more powerful impact on the bewildered spectator.
Poor Jeremy. Here is this former-Catholic atheist getting dragged around to all the Catholic churches in Paris. Oh well.
After that we walked over to where the Tour de France was happening, took in some of the buzz, then retreated the mobs. I was there- and that’s enough for me.
We went back, had dinner, and then Jeremy set his cell phone alarm for the light show on the Eiffel Tower. When it was 10 and 11, we went out on his grandmother’s balcony and watched the show. The way the tower glitters really reminded me of a sparkler on the 4th of July.
Just another Monday in Paris
Ever since middle school I’ve been shamelessly obsessed.
My all time favorite soundtrack, EVER, in this world would be the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. I have parts I and II. I love the movie. I love everything about it.
Our next destination is obvious. Montmartre. I listened to Moulin Rouge in front of THE Moulin Rouge and took silly pictures. Jeremy took a video, which I deleted.
We walked around this art district, up the hill, saw one of Van Gogh’s former residences (we later went back and ate our lunch in the “parkish” thing right in front of his former house). We went up to the Basilica Sacre Coeur which really surprised me as a really impressive church. They had really impressive mosaic ceilings and the outside was really something to look at. The site also offered some great vantage points of Paris.
Afterwards we went to get our sandwiches, and I spent 10 minutes in a souvenir shop debating if I wanted to buy a 3 euro Eiffel tower. I decided against it last minute, and Jeremy said he was proud of me.
Sex district and EuroDisney Ad. Awesome.
After that we went back into central Paris and got ice cream from Berthillon. For once, since it was so hot, I got sorbet. I had grapefruit and coconut, and OMG. We sat on the Seine and watched tourists.
After that we picked up our bags, headed to the train station, and I started writing my blog.
Strippers need to take their kids to eat too....I guess...
Paris fini….for now.
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